


The Descent of Man

by JJPOR



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJPOR/pseuds/JJPOR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one was weird even by Sherlock's standards. And if you've been reading this blog, you'll know that's weird. X-Files weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1st March

**Author's Note:**

> This represents my first, and so far only, foray into Sherlock fic, written during late 2010 after Season 1's first airing in the UK. While it's case-fic it is, I have to say, a fairly cracky one. The crackiest elements come directly from the original ACD story this is based on, which is one of my favourites, even if it seems to be poorly regarded by a lot of fans.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock was created for the BBC by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, based on stories and characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own any of this and am making no profit from it.

The Personal Blog of  
Dr. John H. Watson

 

1st March

 

The Descent of Man, Part 1

 

This one was weird even by Sherlock’s standards. And if you’ve been reading this blog, you’ll know that that’s weird. X-Files weird. I honestly don’t know why I’m posting this. Nobody’s going to believe it anyway. And no, in case my psychiatrist happens to read this, I am not delusional.

I’ve changed the names of the “civilians” involved, if it makes any difference. The case made the news anyway, but not the really out-there details. And what’s DI Lestrade going to do to me for naming him? Sue me? Arrest me? Both, the way my luck’s going. 

Also, I reckon that if I do publicise this, with my name all over it, some of the other interested parties might not decide to “disappear” me.

Yes, living with Sherlock has made me that paranoid. 

No, Dr Thompson, not clinically paranoid! Nor delusional, I think I’ll repeat, in case it wasn’t clear the first time.

So it started as these things usually do, with Sherlock texting me. Amazingly, I was actually out of the flat at the time (there’s nothing more annoying than him texting me from the next room to tell me to come and pass him the newspaper. Not that he does that. Often, anyway):

“John. Come at once if convenient - - if inconvenient come all the same. S.H.”

Yes, this is how he usually talks to me. To everyone. To say he lacks people skills is like saying Hitler got a bit cross sometimes. The thing is, he gets involved in so much dangerous stuff you don’t like to ignore him, just in case it’s something serious this time.

As it happened, he wanted me to fetch him a nicotine patch.

From his jacket pocket. 

The jacket he was wearing.

After I’d finished swearing at him, he told me I’d just come from the pub, where I’d been with my sister. And that I’d messed up the job interview I’d gone to that day. I’m used to him coming out with things like that by now, but still I had to ask. He looked at me as if I was dense:

“But it’s obvious, John. I don’t like to say “elementery”, but well... You’ve been at a pub because you’ve been playing pool. You get chalk on your fingers and then wipe it on your trousers, a distinctive blue-white mark. You were with your sister because although you have been in a pub you haven’t been drinking alcohol. You usually come in reeling about like a, well, like a drunk when you’ve had more than half a shandy. You abstain when you’re with her in the mistaken belief that you’re setting a good example.”

“I could have been in a snooker hall,” I protested.

“No,” he replied, absolutely certain he was right. He was, of course. “You couldn’t have walked here from the nearest snooker hall in the time elapsed since I texted you. You didn’t run because you’re not out of breath. And have you seen the characters that frequent those places? Not your sort of people. Plus you’re even worse at snooker than you are at pool. I know you were on foot because from the state of your hair you were in the rain outside for maybe half an hour. You could have taken a cab to get here sooner, but you haven’t got any money, or didn’t want to spend what little money you have. So, that interview you went to this afternoon didn’t go too well. Did it, John?” 

“There’ll be other jobs.” 

“No doubt.”

He slapped on the patch and reclined in his armchair, enjoying the nicotine in his veins. At least it’s only nicotine. That’s not his real addiction, though, the reason he needs me as his flatmate. Not because he likes company (he doesn’t), not because he couldn’t afford the rent (he can). No, because he needs someone to be clever at all the time, just to prove that he is. That’s his addiction. Why do you think he has that website? 

“Is that all you wanted?” I asked. He didn’t even look at me:

“John, what do you think about dogs?”

“Dogs?” 

“Yes, dogs.” He seemed astonished by my stupidity. Why do I live with this bloke? Not for the friendly conversation. Oh yeah, that’s right, for the danger. “What do you think about dogs as an aid to crime-solving?”

“You’re going to get a dog?” I asked, surprised. “To help you solve crimes?”

“No, I am not going to get a dog,” he replied, witheringly. “What would you say if an otherwise placid dog suddenly attacked somebody that it knew well?” 

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “They just turn sometimes, don’t they?” 

“That’s true,” he agreed. He suddenly looked up: “And there’s our visitor.”

“What visitor?” I asked, unimpressed by his mysterious act. He just gave a funny sort of smile: 

“Come on, even you heard that taxi outside, didn’t you?” He looked at his watch: “Right on time too. Answer the door, John.”

“Answer your own door,” I told him as the buzzer sounded. Of course, I then went and answered the door. I only have myself to blame.

Sherlock, you may have gathered, doesn’t have many friends. Or any friends, really. Apart from me, his “friend and colleague” as he’s taken to introducing me, which he probably only does to take the piss. When anyone comes round here, it’s either DI Lestrade asking for help, DI Lestrade coming to raid us, Sherlock’s brother (I can’t say too much about him), or someone out to kill one or both of us. 

You’d be surprised how often that happens. 

Tonight, though, it was a tall, shy-looking man, about thirty. Glasses, long hair in a ponytail, rain-soaked anorak over shirt and tie, security badge dangling around his neck like he’d come straight from work.

“Trevor Bennett,” he said once I’d let him in, offering me his hand. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr Holmes.” 

“Sorry,” I replied, “I’m his flatmate, John Watson. Sherlock’s through there. You can’t miss him; he’s the bloke with all the nicotine patches.” 

“Er, yeah, right.” Trevor had that slightly scared look most “normal” people get around Sherlock. I was just hoping he hadn’t noticed the embalmed human hand on the sideboard.

“Trevor!” said Sherlock. He can fake friendliness when he wants to: “Glad you could come! This is John; you can talk in front of him. Now, about your dog…”

“It’s not my dog,” Trevor answered, perching on the sofa. I sort of hovered. “It’s my…a friend’s dog,” he continued, as if confessing to something. “Sort of.” He was more than shy, I decided. He was nervous. Scared. “His name’s Roy.”

“Your friend?” asked Sherlock. 

“No, the dog.”

“Roy the dog.” Sherlock nodded: “Of course. The friend’s female. In fact, she’s more than a friend. You’re romantically involved with her, aren’t you?” 

“What?” Trevor instantly turned pink. I was cringing too.

“Come on, Trevor,” Sherlock smiled, rather unpleasantly. “You nearly called her your girlfriend just now, before you corrected yourself. I see from that rash on your lower jaw that you’ve very recently shaved off a beard. And you have a ponytail – in 2010? Also, I can smell your deodorant from here. The Lynx Effect! You thought you needed to tidy up, but didn’t want to cut your hair, suggesting a newish relationship. Cutting your hair’s a big commitment, after all. However, it is a relationship, not an unrequited crush, because you would never buy that tie for yourself. That’s a tasteful tie. A woman’s touch.”

“Now, that’s just sexist,” I cut in automatically. “Not to mention homophobic. It could be a boyfriend.” Trevor’s eyes bulged and I cringed even more.

“A boyfriend who wears lipstick of the same hideous shade as that smear he thinks he wiped off his cheek? Come off it, John! And look at his predictably insecure reaction to you saying that!” 

“Sherlock!” I hissed, embarrassed, as Trevor got up to leave. Sherlock looked at me blankly, genuinely puzzled as to what he’d done wrong. He’s a high-functioning sociopath, if you’re reading, Dr Thompson. He sighed in annoyance: 

“I’m sorry, Trevor,” he managed, and even sounded halfway sincere. He’s a good liar. “Sometimes I just get carried away with myself. Tell me about your gir…your friend’s dog.”

“Roy.” Trevor reluctantly sat down again and got on with his story. “It is very impressive what you do, Mr Holmes,” he said, grudgingly. “Just like the stuff on your website.” 

“I try,” said Holmes, his modesty even falser than his friendliness. “Now, what about Roy?”

“It’s not just Roy,” said Trevor, “but he’s part of it. The problem. I can’t go to the police, but…well, I saw your site and thought you might be able to help.” He shot a nervous glance at me: “Have you heard of Camford Pharmaceuticals?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “They’re currently at the centre of an ongoing animal rights protest. There have been death threats and vandalism in response to their use of primates in their laboratory outside London.” He looked at me: “That’s monkeys, John.”

“I know what primates are,” I grumbled.

“Apes, actually,” Trevor said. “We currently have three sub-adult chimpanzees housed in the laboratory.” He fidgeted: “I work there, you see. I’m a research assistant to Dr Paul Presbury. You’ve heard of him?”

“Vaguely,” Sherlock replied. “Probably in one of those boring journals John gets in the post.” As if he doesn’t get plenty of those too. I sometimes think he knows more about medicine than I do, and I’m a doctor.

“He’s a leading neurologist and biochemist,” I told Sherlock, glad to know something he didn’t for a change. I turned to Trevor: “Isn’t he working on a cure for Alzheimer’s?”

“That’s right. Using artificial hormones to help regenerate brain tissue. Cutting edge. We use extracts from the chimps’ cranial and spinal fluid. Non-fatal procedures; those protestors are massively overreacting; if Paul succeeds, he could save millions of lives.”

“That’s protestors for you,” said Sherlock. “They protest.”

“How did you get permission to use chimps?” I asked. “That’s not common, is it?”

“We have…” Trevor hesitated again, the way he had about his girlfriend. “We have a partner organisation. I can’t really say anything.”

“Meaning it’s the Ministry of Defence,” Sherlock observed. “Or somebody saying they’re the Ministry of Defence. I don’t think you should tell us about that. What about the dog?”

“It’s not really the dog,” said Trevor, anxiously. I could see him sweating. “It’s Paul – Dr Presbury. I’m worried about him.”

“Is he ill?” I asked, wondering why he’d come to Sherlock for help with that. 

“No,” he said. “He’s healthier than he’s ever been. He’s sixty-one, but he looks forty-five. No, it’s…the way he’s been acting.” 

“Go on,” said Sherlock. I could see that he was intrigued. Not that he could care less about Trevor or Dr Presbury, but likes a good puzzle.

“About four weeks ago he went to a neurological conference in Berlin. I don’t know what happened there, but when he came back… He’s been strange. I mean, Paul’s a nice guy. He’s a celebrity, in his field anyway, but it’s never gone to his head. It’s all about the science for him. But…these past few weeks, he’s been different.”

“Different in what way?”

“Irritable. Aggressive. You know, he normally never has a cross word for anybody, but all of a sudden you can’t say anything to him without getting your head bitten off.” 

“So, he’s in a bad mood?” Sherlock asked, patronisingly. 

“Yeah, except Paul never has bad moods.” 

“Could it be trouble at home?” I asked.

“He doesn’t do “at home”,” Trevor replied. “He’s been divorced twenty years, his parents are dead, no kids, no close relatives. All he has is his work.”

“A man after my own heart,” Sherlock commented. He meant it.

“A couple of days after he returned from Berlin,” said Trevor, “we got a parcel. Fed Ex, addressed to Paul. German postmark. Well, we get samples and things from all over the world, so I opened it – I open all the mail. I was right; samples of some sort. Paul suddenly appeared and started yelling at me, saying I had no right to look at his private mail. Right up in my face, he was. He’s never spoken to me like that. I nearly quit on the spot, but I need the job, especially with the economy the way it is.”

“Tell me about it,” I nodded, thinking of my own employment woes.

“So where does Roy come into it?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“Edith…” Trevor hesitated. “Edith Morphy,” he explained. “She’s our animal keeper; she looks after the test subjects. Roy is one of the dogs we’re using to test the hormones we’ve synthesised from the chimps. I could explain the science,” he added apologetically, “but it’s a bit complex.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Sherlock, with a grimace. He doesn’t like being told he wouldn’t understand something.

“Edith is a wonderful person,” Trevor explained. Yeah, he had it bad for her. You could tell.

“Apart from her taste in lipstick,” said Sherlock.

“A bit too kind-hearted for the job she does,” he went on. “She’s sort of adopted Roy, and you can see why, he’s a friendly dog. Takes all his injections without as much as a growl. It’s going to be too bad when we have to dissect his brain.”

A brief, embarrassed pause descended over the room at that. Well, you can see why.

“Go on,” Sherlock urged, impatiently.

“Anyway,” Trevor continued, “Paul has worked on Roy a hundred times without a hitch. And then, two or three weeks ago…”

“The date,” Sherlock demanded.

“Er…” Trevor gave that some thought. “February the fourth? We were giving Roy another injection, nothing we hadn’t done before, and suddenly…well, he bit Paul. Really went for him, snarling and barking, and took a chunk out of his hand.”

“You’d think you were planning to dissect his brain or something,” Sherlock pointed out dryly.

“Look,” said Trevor, “I get enough of that every day from those protestors.” Sherlock shrugged. “Anyway, Roy had never been like that before. And he isn’t like that now, not with me when I do his blood tests and not with Edith when she feeds him. Anyway, shortly afterwards, there was a…a disturbance at the lab.”

“Date?” Sherlock demanded.

“I know that,” said Trevor. “February thirteenth. It was in the papers, you might have seen it. The whole lab was trashed and some of the animals got loose. Security and the police thought the protestors had broken in, but…”

“Who else would it be?” I wondered.

“The thing is, there’s a night watchman, guard dogs, a wire fence. I can’t see how they’d get in, let alone get out again. No slogans painted anywhere, and they left the animals wandering around to get recaptured…”

“CCTV?” asked Sherlock.

“Didn’t see anything. Like whoever it was knew where the cameras were and how to avoid them.”

“And obviously you suspect Paul Presbury,” said Sherlock, looking at Trevor over the top of his steepled fingers. 

“He wouldn’t do that,” Trevor protested. “It was his work! We lost months of research thanks to that mindless destruction…”

“You wouldn’t be here otherwise,” said Sherlock. “You think your boss went mad and trashed his own lab.”

“No…”

“You do,” said Sherlock. “Even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet. You came here because you hope I’ll be able to work out what’s wrong with Dr Presbury and end it without getting the police involved and without destroying his career. Your loyalty is touching, Trevor.” He didn’t have to sneer like that as he said it, I thought.

“Well, Mr Holmes,” said Trevor, swallowing hard. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m going to think about it,” said Sherlock. “And I also think John and I need to meet Dr Presbury, and Roy, and your “friend” Edith, and have a look around your lab.”

“Well, it isn’t open to the public…” he protested.

“Don’t worry,” said Sherlock, with another fake smile. “We’ll think of something.” And with that, he slumped back in the chair again, eyes fixed on the ceiling. After a couple of minutes’ silence, Trevor and I realised we were dismissed.

“I’m sorry,” I told Trevor as I showed him out. “He’s a bit…”

“He’s a bit of a prick,” Trevor observed.

“He is,” I conceded, “but a genius prick. He’ll sort this out for you, and for your friends. It’ll be alright.”

“Thanks, John.” I watched him go off down the wet street. When I think of it now, I feel queasy. And guilty. I mean, there was nothing I could have done, I tell myself. 

But I told him it was going to be alright!

Upstairs, Sherlock was still in the chair. He’d be there all night. He is when he’s working on a “three patch problem”.

“John!” he called as I went past the door.

“Get your own patches,” I called back. “I’m turning in.”

“No,” he said, slowly. “What date is it today?” 

I thought about it for a moment.

“Hurry up, John!”

“February the twenty-second.”

“I thought so.” He went silent again for a bit, then: “Interesting…”

I left him to it and went to bed to toss and turn. When I did drop off, I found myself dreaming about the ‘Stan. I don’t do that as often as I used to. I don’t talk about that stuff, anyway. Sorry, Dr Thompson.

In between dreams, I punched my pillow and listened to Sherlock murdering that bloody violin in the sitting room. I wouldn’t mind if he could play it properly. Eventually he stopped, but by then the daylight was streaming through the crack in the curtains and I’d decided to stop pretending I was getting any sleep. I went through to the kitchen in my dressing gown to make coffee. Sherlock was, as predicted, still in the chair, fully dressed, empty Nicorette packets littering the horrible carpet around his feet.

“Morning,” I said, blearily.

“Quiet! I’m thinking!”

“Right.” And then the buzzer went off again. Two visitors in two days, some sort of record! I thought it might be Trevor. I was wrong of course.

“Hello,” I said, unenthusiastically.

“It’s just the police again, dear!” our landlady called up the stairs.

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson!”

“Is Sherlock in?” Detective Inspector Lestrade asked, wedging his foot in the door. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, he’s in there,” I mumbled. Lestrade was already on his way past, leaving me blinking at DS Donovan behind him.

“You too, John,” she said, indicating that I should go into the sitting room.

“Are you here for help?” I asked, hopefully, not liking either detective’s manner. There was something up here.

“No,” she told me, delightedly. “We’re here to question the two of you.” She loves her work, Sally, especially when it involves cracking down on Sherlock. Be honest, you can see how someone could take a dislike to him.

“Trevor Bennett,” said Lestrade, when Sherlock and I were seated, the two coppers standing over us.

“Trevor who?” Sherlock asked, without a flicker.

“This isn’t one of your games, Sherlock,” the DI suggested. “We checked his computer. You were one of the last people he emailed.” It took me a moment to realise what that meant.

“Last people he emailed before what?” I asked.

“Trevor Bennett’s dead,” said Sally. “He was killed in the early hours of this morning.” 

“How?” I asked, shocked. I could barely think. I’d been talking to him only a few hours ago. I told him it’d be alright. Sherlock didn’t even blink as Sally replied:

“His head was beaten in. It looked like a puddle of strawberry jam.”

Look, this post has gone on too long anyway, and that’s as good a place to end it for now as any. I’m sorry, but just thinking about Trevor Bennett is making me sick. I didn’t know this case had got under my skin so much. So, I’ll pick this up again tomorrow, job interviews and Sherlock allowing. Thanks for reading. I have to take a shower now, or steal some of Sherlock’s patches, or something. Anything.

 

8 comments

 

Yes, John, very good! Once again, you manage to reduce what should be a series of enlightening scientific lectures into…a story. As I keep telling you, I don’t have adventures, I solve puzzles. I think your online “friends” would enjoy reading more about my deductions and the reasoning behind them instead of your attempts to write blokey prose. And you managed to compare me to Hitler at one point too. Well done, John! Yes, that was sarcasm.  
Sherlock Holmes 1 March 17:18

Oh, and you misspelled “elementary”. I know you medical practitioners generally have a bad track record with that kind of thing, but really.  
Sherlock Holmes 1 March 17:20

So John, that’s why you ran out so quickly the other night? To see your new boyfriend! All makes sense now. Didn’t I read about this Bennett thing in the Mail?  
Harry Watson 1 March 18:23

I’m not going to dignify any of the above comments with a response.  
John Watson 1 March 21:27

It would be churlish of me, wouldn’t it, to point out that you just have?  
Sherlock Holmes 1 March 21:34

And i kep teling you, i like a #drink. So what?! No big deal.  
Harry Watson 1 March 23:56

Harry, you have a problem and need help. I’ve decided not to be tactful about this any more.  
John Watson 2 March 08:18

Ah, Dr Presbury from Berlin. He seemed like a nice man. Such a shame.  
Anonymous 3 March 00:12


	2. 2nd March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John investigate the death scene and reach some shocking conclusions. Oh, and John rather amateurishly refers to the Doctor as "Doctor Who" at one point, like it's his name. Please forgive him, he's only a "casual viewer"! ;D

The Personal Blog of  
Dr. John H. Watson

 

2nd March

 

The Descent of Man, Part 2

 

Went for another interview this morning. Don’t think I’ve got this one either. The main guy asking questions looked about twelve, and I think I let my contempt show in my answers. Not a good idea, really. Maybe I’m setting my sights too high – I could get locum work, I suppose, if I tried.

Enough of that. Sherlock’s playing his violin again. I could shout at him to be quiet, but he’d ignore me.

Back to The Adventure of the Nervous Animal-Vivisectionist – Sherlock will hate me calling it that. No, I can’t joke about it, the poor bloke’s dead. And I told him it would be alright. I’ve seen quite a bit of death, as a doctor, as a soldier, since I started living with Sherlock. Most of those people, though, I never saw them alive and whole beforehand, and if I told any of those wounded squaddies in Afghanistan that it would be alright, I don’t think I meant it.

Christ, what a horrible thing to think.

Sorry, I can’t do this now.

EDIT: Right, I’ve got my head together a bit. Had a fight with Sherlock about him putting empty milk containers back in the fridge. How was I to know it was an experiment?

Anyway, Trevor Bennett. When Sally said he was dead, I just sat there for a moment, like an idiot. Like I said, Sherlock didn’t even blink.

“So,” said Lestrade, very businesslike, grabbing a chair and planting himself down. “Why did this dead man contact you yesterday?”

“He liked my website,” Sherlock answered, like it was a game. “It’s really good.” It is all a game to him.

“Where were you between midnight and two?” Sally demanded.

“Here,” he said. “With John. Making sweet, sweet love.” If I’d actually managed to make that coffee, I probably would’ve choked on it.

“Stop lying,” Sally told him.

“How do you know I’m lying?” he asked her, with that piss-taking gleam in his eye. “John is such a gentle and considerate lover.”

“You’re talking, aren’t you?” She doesn’t even try to hide how little time she has for him. That amuses him, of course.

“How’s Anderson?” he asked, nastily. “His wife must still be at her mother’s because he cooked you dinner last night. How romantic.” Before he could humiliate her by explaining exactly how he knew this, Lestrade decided to stop messing about. I was grateful for that.

“Look Sherlock, we’ve got a man with his head bashed in, no witnesses, no suspects, you two are more or less the last people to see him alive…” 

“Is this where you try to apply pressure by pretending to treat us as suspects, despite having nowhere near enough evidence to charge us?” Sherlock snorted. “Pull the other one, Lestrade.”

“If it was up to Sally, you’d be in an interview room right now waiting for your brief to arrive.”

“Yes, in a parallel universe.” Sherlock looked at Sally: “It was either lasagne or spaghetti Bolognese, and afterwards you and Anderson…”

“Stranger things have happened,” Lestrade told him, ominously. “What did Trevor Bennett want to talk to you about?”

“Can I plead client confidentiality?” Sherlock asked him.

“No.”

Sherlock looked back at Sally: “You did what with ice-cream? Really?”

“Let’s nick him right now, guv,” she suggested. 

“You could,” Sherlock agreed. “Or you could admit that you came here because you haven’t a clue why Trevor Bennett was killed and you want – no, need – my assistance.”

“Tell us why he emailed you,” Lestrade persisted.

“Tell me how he died. Or better yet, let me have a look for myself and I’ll tell you. It’ll save everybody a lot of time.”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade fumed.

“Good.” Sherlock nodded. “Glad you saw sense. I’ll just go and make myself presentable – see you downstairs.” 

I shrugged embarrassedly at Lestrade and Donovan as they made for the door again, wishing I could disappear down the back of the sofa cushion.. “Five minutes,” Lestrade said, “or we’ll be back up here with handcuffs.”

“I think Sally left hers on Anderson,” Sherlock replied. “He likes that kind of thing.” 

“Freak!” she hissed.

“That’s not a nice thing to call him after he cooked dinner.”

Sherlock waited for them to go and then smiled smugly across at me:

“Game on!”

“It’s not a game!” I replied, shocked by his attitude. “That man…that man who was sitting here last night… He’s dead, Sherlock!”

“Yes. Interesting, don’t you think?” He got up and made for his bedroom.

“No,” I answered. I was trying not to get angry, hard as it was. “Why didn’t you tell Lestrade what Trevor told us, about Dr Presbury and the dog and everything?” 

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock sounded puzzled. 

“I don’t know, because it’s illegal to withhold evidence from the police? Because it might help them find out why Trevor died?" 

“That’s certainly an intriguing notion,” he conceded. “Come on, John, get dressed! Unless you’re coming to the crime scene in your dressing gown…”

“I can’t,” I told him.

“What?”

“I’ve got another interview today.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “what’s more important? Getting a job,” and he spat the word out like it disgusted him, “or watching me being brilliant?

So, a few minutes later we were both in the back of DI Lestrade’s car.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Camford Pharmaceuticals,” Sherlock announced beside me.

“How do you know that?” Sally asked suspiciously from the front.

“How do I know anything?” The car stopped at the lights and Sherlock punched the back of Lestrade’s seat, making him jump: “Stop here. I’ll be two minutes.”

“They’re about to change!” Sherlock was already out of the car, coat swirling behind him as he dashed into a chemist’s shop. He’d left the door open, of course. Lestrade gave me an exasperated look as cars behind beeped their horns or tried to manoeuvre around us. I did my best to look sympathetic. Sherlock was back again a couple of minutes later with a carrier bag.

He shoved a crumpled piece of paper at Lestrade: “Receipt. I’m sure the police will reimburse me.”

“Reimburse you?”

“I had to buy some lipstick.” He pulled a handful of different brands out of the bag and dropped them in again. Then he saw me staring at him: “For research purposes, John." 

“That’s what they all say,” I said.

The Camford Pharmaceuticals laboratory was in one corner of a suburban industrial estate, surrounded by security fences and cameras. I could see why – even this early, there were protestors gathering with placards and leaflets. I heard them chanting slogans as we waited for security to open the gate.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t condone cruelty to animals. I don’t want to offend any of my readers either, but… As a doctor, I believe animal testing is necessary. Not things like testing cosmetics on rabbits – I mean things like pharmaceuticals and genetics. These things save lives, honestly. On the other hand, I think it’s kind of sick to call a dog Roy and say how friendly he is when you know you’re going to end up taking him apart to see whether your experiment worked. Okay, rant over.

Now that you’ve all stopped reading in disgust, I sort of sympathise with the protestors without agreeing with them. Not the extremists, but the ones I could see outside that lab just looked like concerned kids, student types. They didn’t look dangerous. Not to me, anyway. That’s probably why I’ll never make it as a consulting detective, because Sherlock seemed to view them with suspicion and disdain, although maybe it was just bafflement that anyone could give a toss about what seems to him an irrelevant issue.

Lestrade stopped in front of a square three-storey building, one of a row of four, divided from another identical row by a car park currently full of police vehicles. As Sherlock got out of the car, I saw him shove the bunched-up carrier into his coat pocket, looking around inquisitively.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Cameras.” He pointed at one corner of the building, at the building opposite. “And there’s our crime scene.” He pointed at one of the second floor windows. It had been smashed.

The ground floor was a reception area and admin office. The first floor was private offices and labs, with more labs on the second floor. That was where Trevor Bennett was, still lying where he had died beneath the smashed window, the centre of a small crowd of forensic technicians. The floor was littered with broken scientific equipment and containers. Whoever killed Trevor had cleared the workbenches in the middle of the lab and emptied all of the cabinets and cupboards, leaving the place a bloody mess. Literally. Sally hadn’t been kidding about Trevor’s head.

“I see you’ve left the body,” Sherlock smiled. Smiled! “You wanted me to see it in place, meaning that you were coming to me for help all along.” He glanced at Sally: “You know that that makes your efforts at intimidation earlier look even more ridiculous, don’t you?”

“What’s he doing here?” asked a familiar figure in a blue plastic forensics suit.

“Quiet, Anderson,” said Sherlock. “People are trying to work in here. I think Sally enjoyed the pasta and ice-cream, by the way.” Anderson looked like he was about to hit him. “Lestrade, could you get all of these tourists out of here, please?”

“Sir,” Anderson protested, but Lestrade was already waving the others out of the room. Anderson remained in the corner, plainly furious. Sherlock ignored him. 

Instead, he swept around the room in his coat and scarf like Doctor Who or something, looking at everything, missing nothing. “Who found the body?” he asked Lestrade.

“Edith Morphy, the animal keeper. She came into work at eight, came up here and… We’ve got her in the building across the car park there. She’s in a state, as you can imagine.” Lestrade nodded towards the building visible through the broken window: “That’s where they keep the animals. Someone got in there too, broke the locks on some of the cages. A chimp got loose.”

“A chimp?” I asked. “Can’t they be, well, dangerous?”

“Apparently,” Lestrade agreed. “It’s back under lock and key now.”

“Those door locks,” Sherlock said. “They record every time somebody uses a card to open them. You’ve checked that, of course.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied, rankling a bit at the patronising tone. “First thing we did. All of the staff went home between five and eight. Last ones out were Bennett and the boss man, Dr Presbury. Bennett came back here around midnight, which apparently wasn’t unheard of for him, got signed in by security, and…” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

“He was the last person to enter this lab until Edith Morphy found him this morning. Nobody else entered or left this building or this room all night.”

“What about Dr Presbury?” I asked. Sherlock and Lestrade both looked at me.

“He was still at home when Edith called him just after eight,” Sally cut in. “He was the first person she contacted after dialling 999. Got here about nine, just before we did.”

“I see.” Sherlock turned back to the window, almost grinning. “A locked room mystery… I love it. Except…it isn’t much of a mystery. See all of this broken glass? This window was smashed inwards, from the outside. That’s how the killer got in. Thick glass too…” He leaned out of the jagged-edged hole, examining the ground below. “A two-storey climb, no drainpipe, no ledges - the windows don’t open from the outside and are in any case locked… What do you think, John?”

“Where was Spider Man between the hours of midnight and two?” I murmured, and immediately felt bad. This wasn’t a laughing matter.

Sherlock crouched beside Trevor, taking out his little magnifying lens. “What do you make of this body?” he asked me.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes,” he said, testily. “Cause of death?”

“Somebody kept hitting his head till he didn’t have a head any more,” I answered, quietly, thinking about exactly what that meant. 

“Lestrade, Donovan, anybody,” Sherlock called out, “weapon?”

“None that we could see,” Lestrade admitted.

“That’s because whoever it was used their fists.” That took a moment to sink in:

“No, no way,” I blurted. “How could a person do…do that with their fists?”

“I didn’t say anything about a person.” Sherlock pointed to a smear of blood on the floor beside Trevor’s dead hand: “Look.” He held the lens over it so I could see.

“A print?” I wondered.

“Yes, but not a fingerprint. See, horizontal wrinkles… It’s a knuckle-print.”

“A knuckle-print?” Anderson was dumbfounded. “There’s no such thing!”

“Are you still here?” Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “When nobody said anything idiotic for a couple of minutes, I thought you must have left.” He stood to examine the similar bloody marks trailing across the floor, along one of the workbenches, on top of a cabinet, muttering to himself as he went: “When you’ve got rid of the things that couldn’t possibly have happened, then what you’re left with, however unlikely… And I’m not kidding about the “unlikely” part.” He turned to Lestrade: “You see how it was done now, don’t you?”

“No.”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock sighed. “You see but you don’t… Look! The killer didn’t come through the door, whoever, or whatever, it was…”

“Whatever?” Anderson scoffed. I had been about to say the same thing.

“Ah-ah,” said Sherlock, waving a finger under Anderson’s nose.

“What - ?”

“Ah-ah-ah-ah…” Sherlock kept waving the finger until Anderson lapsed into silence. “Thank you. Now keep quiet, the grownups are talking.” He turned back to Lestrade: “Whatever it was came through the window. He, she or it was agile enough to scale the side of the building without significant handholds, and strong enough to punch a hole in a plate-glass window. He, she or,” he glanced insolently at Anderson again, “it, then proceeded to do the same to Trevor Bennett’s head while generally wrecking the place, all the while walking around on his, her or its…”

“Knuckles!” Lestrade exclaimed, getting it in the same instant I did. I wonder if he felt as thick as I did for not tumbling to it sooner. “It was the bloody chimp!” he told Sally, who stared at him open-mouthed for a moment:

“You must be joking…”

“That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it, Sherlock?” he asked.

“You should probably go and interrogate it,” Sherlock suggested. “Just don’t expect any clever answers.” Lestrade made for the door:

“Anderson, bring your kit! We need to examine that ape for traces!”

“And you, Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock smiled, “should probably look at the CCTV footage for the car park outside. Who knows, you might actually see Spider Man breaking in here and prove me wrong.” I could see Sally was on the point of throwing some insulting remark back, but instead she swallowed her anger and left the room too.

Sherlock and I were alone. Two civilians left alone at a crime scene. That was a bit irresponsible of the police, don’t you think?

“A chimpanzee killed him?” I looked down at Trevor’s remains: “Bloody hell.”

“No, of course the chimpanzee didn’t kill him,” Sherlock said, irritably, “as Sergeant Donovan will quickly discover if she looks at the CCTV footage. A murderous great ape couldn’t cross that car park outside the cameras catching it. Besides, Trevor here looks too good.”

“Too good?” He looked like somebody had taken a sledgehammer to him!

“A chimp would have torn his arms off or eaten his face, that kind of thing. Don’t you watch the Discovery Channel?”

“No,” I said, “and neither do you. Then what did kill him? I assume you think it was a person?”

“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that this killing took place in the very early hours of February twenty-third?” He crouched again and took hold of Trevor’s wrist for a second: “Yes, skin lividity, body temperature and rigor all suggest he died between midnight and two. Anderson isn’t a complete incompetent after all.”

“I’ll have to tell him you said that,” I said.

“Don’t you dare. We may as well call the date of death February twenty-second.” From his jacket pocket, he produced a single latex surgical glove. “When did the previous so-called break-in occur?”

“Oh, hang on,” I said, trying to remember. “I’ll tell you in a minute…”

“February thirteenth,” he continued, instantly. “Nine days before Trevor came to see me and later died. And Roy the dog bit Dr Presbury on February fourth, which was nine days before that… Nine days between incidents, John. What does that suggest?”

“A coincidence?” I suggested, failing to see the link between a dog biting someone and somebody else getting his head smashed to a pulp.

“Where you see coincidence, John, I see connections…” He snapped the glove onto his right hand.

“What are you doing?” I almost yelled, but then remembered the police just outside the door. I don’t know if I should really say this, in case Sherlock gets in trouble, but if he does it’ll teach him. He was only going through the dead bloke’s pockets!

“I’m looking for evidence.” He had Trevor’s phone in his hand. “And pursuing a lead…”

“What lead? Have you seen something here that tells you what happened, that you haven’t told Lestrade?” 

“Not necessarily.” He was texting – texting! – somebody using Trevor Bennett’s phone! While the guy was lying two feet away from him with no head! When he’d finished, he put the phone back where he’d found it, but then shoved his hand underneath the body, rummaging around.

“Not necessarily?” I asked, staring guiltily at the door, expecting someone to walk in at any moment and catch us.

“Not until now.” He rolled Trevor a little to one side so that I could see what he’d found. On the floor beneath Trevor’s body, invisible without moving him, was a padded envelope, smeared with blood. Fed Ex. “From Germany,” said Sherlock, indicating the markings. “Just like the other one Trevor mentioned.” He managed to get his hand inside it without having to move Trevor any more. “Empty,” he grumbled. “Or maybe not quite…” He stood and let Trevor fall back into place, a slightly bloody sheet of white paper in his gloved hand.

“What’s that?”

“A sales invoice,” he frowned. “Addressed to Dr Paul Presbury, from an H. Lowenstein, Berlin. Presbury owes Lowenstein two thousand pounds, but it doesn’t say why, or indeed who Lowenstein might be…” He dropped the invoice into his pocket, along with the rubber glove.

“You can’t do that!” I protested.

“Well, I just have, suggesting that in fact I can.”

“It’s evidence!”

“Come on, John, we’ve got an appointment to keep, but we need to do a couple of things first.” He made for the door, leaving poor dead Trevor Bennett forgotten behind him.

“An appointment?”

“Yes, I just arranged it using Trevor’s phone. He had the number, of course.” We left the lab, Sherlock nodding amiably at the coppers in the corridor and walking away for the all the world like somebody who hadn’t just stolen vital evidence from a murder scene. Being a sociopath has its advantages, I guess. “Here’s a thought,” he said as we were descending the stairs to the first floor. “Last night Trevor implied that Presbury’s work for Camford is being done in partnership with another organisation.”

“Yeah, the MoD or somebody, judging by how cagey he seemed.”

“And yet, Presbury’s supposed to be working on a cure for Alzheimer’s,” Sherlock pointed out. “Why would the MoD be interested in that? What are the military applications?” Instead of continuing downstairs, he stopped at the first floor and pushed open the stairwell door.

“Where are we going now?” I asked, a bit apprehensive to be honest, because following Sherlock unquestioningly is an excellent way, I find, of getting in deep trouble.

“Just a flying visit to Dr Presbury. I saw the sign in reception; his office is down here somewhere, I think.” It was a narrow, carpeted corridor lined with doors, all with the same electronic locks as the lab upstairs. “I would have lifted Trevor’s pass,” Sherlock said as we went along the passage, “but as I told Lestrade, it’s traceable.” He stopped before a door marked “P. Presbury”. “Here we are.” He knocked.

“Who is that?” It was a gruff man’s voice, muffled by the door.

“DI Lestrade,” said Sherlock in an outrageous cockney accent sounding nothing like the real Lestrade. “Here to see Dr Presbury.”

“Wait.” There was a sound of somebody moving about, and the door suddenly opened from within. “Yes?” Presbury was an average-sized man, maybe putting on a bit of weight in his later years. Apart from that, Trevor had been right; he didn’t look sixty-one. His thinning hair was dark grey, nearly black, and he wasn’t bad-looking either.

Not that I know what good-looking men look like.

Not that there’s anything wrong with a man knowing what good-looking men look like.

But I don’t. 

I’ll shut up now.

“Yeah, Dr Presbury,” Sherlock went on in the same ridiculous accent, “I’m DI Lestrade and this is DS Donovan. We were just hoping…”

“You’re not Lestrade!” Presbury barked, face darkening from well-scrubbed pink to worrying purple with startling speed. “I spoke to him before! Who are you really, and what do you want?”

“How did that happen, Dr Presbury?” Sherlock asked in his own voice, pointing at Presbury’s right hand, which was heavily bandaged.

“A dog bit me,” the scientist confirmed. “Occupational hazard. Now, get out!” He really yelled this last part, little flecks of spit on his lower lip. I was thinking I could probably take him in a fight, but that wouldn’t go down too well with Lestrade, would it?

“It must have been a terrible shock to discover what had happened to Trevor,” said Sherlock placidly. That seemed to strike a chord. Presbury subsided slightly, voice quietening:

“Trevor…he…” He blinked in obvious confusion, stepping back from the door. Sherlock took the opportunity to step forward. “I received a call shortly after eight saying that Trevor was…I got here around nine.” He blinked again. “I can’t believe what…”

“Nine?” Sherlock was peering over Presbury’s shoulder, at the disorganised desk under the window behind him. “In London traffic?”

“I walked,” he answered. “I don’t live far from here.”

“Good.” Sherlock looked Presbury up and down and smiled to himself: “Convenient. Now, about Edith Morphy…” For whatever reason, that set Presbury off again. Suddenly his face returned to its purple shade as he advanced on us once more:

“I thought I told you to get out of here! Trevor Bennett is dead, and all you can do is stand around asking puerile questions! Out! Out, before I call for those policemen upstairs! Now!”

“Don’t worry,” I said, as Sherlock beat a hasty retreat and I hurried after him. “We’re going!”

“And what did you make of that?” Sherlock asked when we reached the car park. 

“He’s a bit volatile, isn’t he? Maybe dangerously unstable. And when he wasn’t angry, he seemed out of it, confused.” I looked at him: “You think he did it, don’t you?”

“If he did,” Sherlock answered, “how did he climb to that window? How did he shatter Trevor Bennett’s skull with his bare hands? Data, John; I need more data!” He looked around again before turning back to me: “Do me a favour.”

“Another one?”

“There’s a works canteen over there. I saw it on the way in. Go and see what they’re serving. If they have a special, find out what it is. And the same for yesterday too. Then meet me around the back of the animal building in ten minutes.”

“Around the back of the animal building?”

“In ten minutes!”

To cut a long story short (Countdown’s on Channel 4 in a minute), the Camford Pharmaceuticals canteen’s special that day was chicken curry and rice. The day before, it had been moussaka, of all things. I haven’t had moussaka in years. When I met Sherlock at the back of the animal house, he sort of laughed and went “Moussaka! Of course!” It does make sense eventually, honest.

Well, as much sense as any part of this story.

I was still trying to make sense of it when a woman emerged from the back door of the building, glancing around nervously. Late twenties, maybe; mousy hair, white lab coat over jumper and jeans (I’m sure Sherlock immediately knew her mother’s maiden name and what she’d had for breakfast). She’d been crying recently. Even I could see that, and I didn’t blame her. I can’t even imagine what it was like for her to find Trevor like that.

I could have, at one time, before Afghanistan burned it out of me.

“Good morning, Edith,” said Sherlock.

“I got your text,” said the young woman who had been Trevor Bennett’s girlfriend until sometime between midnight and two that morning.

That’s it for now (and not just because I want to marry that new girl on Countdown). This whole case just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve been dreaming about chimpanzees and smashed heads. Maybe Dr Thompson’s right, that telling it all makes it easier to live with somehow. Next part to follow soonish. 

Last edited by John Watson 2 March 14:44

 

9 comments

 

Oh, what a great story! A bit gruesome, though, LOL! :-D I didn’t know you wrote fiction, John. I think you should think about getting this published. Only I don’t think you should name the characters after yourself and Sherlock – that’s what they call a “Mary Sue”! I learned about that online. Do you know if Sherlock’s going to be coming to the lab today? Or tomorrow, maybe? I’m on night shift all week, so if he wanted to drop by this evening, that would be fine.  
Molly Hooper 2 March 16:45

John, you left out the best part! What happened to that great story you told me about chatting up those two dinner ladies in the canteen? It was so droll and made you look like such a witty, debonair ladies’ man! I’m sure they really enjoyed your inept attempts at sexual harassment!  
Sherlock Holmes 2 March 17:02

Chatting up dinner ladies, eh? Naughty, naughty boy! Mate, alright for a swift half tonight? I’m buying. And a chat too - you sound like you need it.   
Bill Murray 2 March 17:38

@Bill, sure thing, this violin is doing my head in. Text you in a min. @Sherlock, was that sarcasm by any chance?   
John Watson 2 March 18:13

Oh yes it definitely was. And I’d like to see your attempt at impersonating Lestrade. Also, don’t do that thing with the “at” symbols. It’s distracting.  
Sherlock Holmes 2 March 18:21

It’s hard to tell when you’re being sarcastic sometimes because you hardly ever are. Ever.  
John Watson 2 March 18:26

Sherlock, did you get my text?  
Molly Hooper 2 March 18:47

John, please call me. I think your phone is switched off. I know your next session isn’t until Wednesday, but reading the above I think we need to talk.  
E Thompson 2 March 20:12 

Herr Professor Lowenstein issues sales invoices for his product in his own name? How incautious. I shall have to send somebody to have a word with him.  
Anonymous 3 March 00:30


	3. 7th March

The Personal Blog of  
Dr. John H. Watson

 

7th March

 

The Descent of Man, Part 3

 

Sorry for not updating in a few days, was out on another case with Sherlock. He’s a busy man. I’d blog about that one, but I’m still halfway through this, and in any case I don’t think the world’s ready for the story of the footballer, the butter and the aluminium crutch.

It also meant I missed my appointment with Dr Thompson, which may or may not have been a bad thing. Sorry, Dr Thompson, but I was trying to prevent a major international incident while simultaneously proving I was innocent of massive financial fraud. Well, Sherlock was. I was just following him around and helping out with the rough stuff.

So, where was I? Edith Morphy. She stood behind the animal house watching us apprehensively. I’d have watched us apprehensively too if I was her. She wiped her eyes with a soggy piece of tissue but seemed determined not to cry any more in front of us. In fact, she looked at Sherlock like he’d just run over her cat (or maybe Roy the dog). A lot of people look at him like that, it has to be said, but most of them actually know him. Sherlock, of course, was completely oblivious to the visual daggers flying towards him.

“I haven’t got any money,” she began. I realised that the accent I couldn’t quite place was actually a soft Irish lilt, but the main thing I could hear in her voice was anger.

“I don’t want your money,” Sherlock replied dismissively. 

“You’re trying to blackmail me, right?” she asked, sharply. “That’s why you sent me that text. From Trev’s phone too – that’s just sick!”

“You’re trying to blackmail her?” I asked, aghast, because while it seemed like a wild accusation, with Sherlock you can never take anything for granted.

“No, I’m not trying to blackmail her,” he scoffed.

“There are policemen right inside there,” she said, nodding at the door. “All I have to do is tell them…”

“You won’t do that, Edith,” he replied. “If you did, they’d just want to know why I was talking to you, and if I told them the truth, which I probably would in the circumstances, DI Lestrade would start fancying you for Trevor’s murder. And none of us want that, now do we? What group do you belong to, Edith? ALF, SHAC, ARM, ALB?”

Her face was suddenly white, anger and tears replaced for the moment by stark shock: “How did you find out?”

“I had a suspicion when I saw your photo on Trevor’s phone just now,” he answered, “but seeing you in person only confirms it.”

“Confirms what?” I asked, failing to follow his line of reasoning, which was nothing new.

“You’re the expert when it comes to women, John,” he went on. “Wouldn’t you say Edith is a little bit out of Trevor’s league?”

“You bastard,” she spat. I nearly agreed with her.

“That’s not very scientific,” I said, with what I still think was admirable restraint, Sherlock, if you’re reading this (of course you’re reading this – you bloody Google yourself. Yes, I caught you doing it that time, remember?).

“True, though,” he shrugged. “Come on, John, Trevor was the sort of person who thinks wearing deodorant and brushing your hair counts as making an effort. How could he hope to – I believe the vernacular term is “pull” – a woman like Edith?” He turned back to her. She was shaking with rage, too furious to speak. “Three things, Edith: The first thing is your shoes, they’re plastic.” He looked down at them. “Which doesn’t clinch it, I’ll admit, but in combination with the other data... The second thing,” he went on, “is the tie you bought for Trevor.”

“How did you know I bought him a tie?” she gasped.

“The same way I know everything else about you,” he retorted. “The internet is a wonderful thing,” he told me, conversationally. “You can buy ties on it, you know.”

“I know,” I murmured, wishing he’d stop, just stop. He’s a genius, and my life suddenly means something again now that I’m his sidekick, assistant, colleague, friend, whatever you want to call it, but Edith was right. He can be a bastard when he wants to be.

“It took me a while,” he told her, “but that tie had a very distinctive pattern. Eventually I found the website you’d bought it from, a website raising funds for an American animal rights charity. Don’t you think that’s strange, John?” he asked me. “Somebody who works in a place like this donating money to animal rights groups?”

“Yeah,” I said, starting to see what he was getting at, still thinking he could have been a bit more tactful, but tact isn’t his thing, is it?

“And the third thing,” he told Edith, “is this.” He pulled half a dozen assorted lipsticks from his coat pocket. “This one?” he wondered, holding one up in front of Edith’s face. “Too red.” He threw it over his shoulder and tried another: “This one? Not red enough…” He tried yet another one and allowed himself a satisfied smile: “Ah, yes… So, Edith, you work in an animal testing laboratory yet you wear plastic shoes, support animal rights charities and use lipstick that is, and I quote, “guaranteed non-animal-tested”.” He gave her a frown of mock-puzzlement: “You even give your unfortunate doomed-to-be-dead test subjects nice little names, like “Roy”. It could be your guilty conscience, I suppose,” he mused, “or it could just be rank hypocrisy, but I’m suspecting there’s more to it than that.”

“Piss off,” she told him, venomously.

“You’d be surprised how many people say that to me, Edith. Or possibly not. You’re not here to smash the place up or turn the animals loose, because you’ve had ample time to do that already. So, you’re here undercover. Gathering information perhaps?” 

“Edith,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a tissue. “Edith, it’s all right,” I murmured, handing it to her. 

“No it’s not,” she said, wiping her eyes. “He’s dead. And it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” I told her, reaching out to put a hand on her arm. I hesitated when I saw Sherlock rolling his eyes in scorn. “I’m John,” I told her, “and this is Sherlock. He’s a…well, a detective, sort of.” She looked up in sudden fear. “No, no, not police,” I insisted. “Trevor came to him for help, about…well…”

“About Paul,” she said, softly. “We were talking about it, how he needed help. I didn’t know Trev was going to…” She looked at me: “How much did he tell you?”

“Enough.” I said. “We’re just trying to help, so if Sherlock upset you he didn’t mean to. He can’t help it, he’s a…”

“A knob-head,” she said.

“Yeah, a bit of a knob-head,” I conceded.

“I am standing right here, you know,” said Sherlock. “It isn’t going to take even Anderson all day to fingerprint that chimp, so can we get a move on and look at Roy the dog, please?”

“You want to look at Roy?” she asked, in puzzlement.

“Yes,” he insisted. “Roy.”

“The conditions they house these animals in are appalling,” Edith said as she took us inside. I found myself agreeing with her. The main room was little more than a concrete-floored shed with rows of wire mesh kennels down either side. Through the reinforced glass window in the far door, I caught a glimpse of Lestrade and Anderson, no doubt wondering how to go about getting forensic traces from a chimpanzee without getting their faces bitten off. The dogs started barking as soon as Edith entered.

“That’s Roy,” she said, indicating a nondescript mongrel in the nearest cage on the left. “The chimps are through there,” she said, nodding at the far door. “They’re better housed, but how would you like to live your life in a cage?”

“Wouldn’t be much fun,” I agreed, thinking that the way Sherlock was carrying on I might soon be finding out what it was like at first hand.

“That’s why I’m here.” Edith lowered her voice to a near-whisper: “Break-ins and vandalism do no good in the long run. These companies all have insurance policies. And targeting staff just makes us look like nutters, turns the guy in the street right off, but…if people just knew…” 

“So, you’ve been gathering evidence,” Sherlock surmised, crouching down beside the door to Roy’s cage. “That would also explain why you slept with Trevor.”

“That’s not why,” she told us, very quietly, slumping back against the door. “I wouldn’t do that, not even for the movement. And I wouldn’t do it to Trev. Trev and me, it wasn’t like that,” she insisted wretchedly, tears starting to flow again. “He was funny and sweet and…it wasn’t like that.”

“Then what about you and Dr Presbury?” Sherlock asked impassively. “Was that “like that”?”

“What are you…?” For a few moments Edith’s mouth just opened and closed like a goldfish.

“Good boy,” Sherlock told Roy, with absolute insincerity, holding his fingers to the cage door, letting the dog lick them through the wire mesh. “Isn’t he a friendly dog, John? Good dog, Roy…”

“Is it true?” I asked Edith, in what I hoped was a non-judgmental tone of voice. “You and Dr Presbury…?” 

“How does he…?” she asked, nodding at Sherlock, looking genuinely scared. 

“He just…” I shrugged. “He’s…really…clever?”

“Careful John, you’ll make me blush.” Sherlock stood up again and rounded on Edith: “I was only fifty percent sure after seeing Dr Presbury’s reaction when I mentioned your name to him. Your reaction just now increased that to one hundred percent.” He looked at me, sardonically: “You see, John, it’s all about the poker face, or the lack of same. You funny little people, I can read you like books sometimes.”

For someone with little or no empathy for his fellow humans, Sherlock can be surprisingly astute about emotions when he wants to be. It’s just another game to him, I think, an intellectual exercise. I think he knows after long years of study and observation, that “x” reaction from someone means they’re feeling “y”, but he doesn’t necessarily know what “y” feels like or why it’s inappropriate for him to goad them about it.

“Dr Presbury…Paul…since you ask, no, it wasn’t like that either,” Edith protested. “It wasn’t…” She glanced at the door again, worried that Lestrade or somebody would come walking in at any moment. “I came here expecting to hate him, for what he was doing…but…apart from the animals, he was a nice guy, a bit lonely I think…and, and one night he asked me to go for a drink, and…”

“And one thing just led to another?” Sherlock sneered.

“Sort of…” She looked down at the floor, pausing for a long moment before continuing. “He couldn’t…We went back to my place and…we tried, but Paul couldn’t…”

Sherlock just looked at her, eyebrows raised in mystification: “Yes?” I knew what she meant, just from the way she said it, even if it eluded boy genius. I wondered if he’d ever… Well, in Sherlock’s case I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he never had, if you know what I mean.

“He couldn’t…” I felt a sort of vague male embarrassment, me the medical professional for crying out loud. “He… I don’t think he could,” I coughed; “you know, perform.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded. “I see. Well, it’s not uncommon in men his age. “ He looked at Edith again: “So did you just cuddle or something? Did you tell him that was just as good?”

“Why are you so cruel?” she asked him, choking up again. Excellent question.

“Hello!” he said, so patronisingly I could have punched him. “High-functioning sociopath! And when did this…encounter take place?”

“About a month ago,” she murmured, still looking at the floor. “No, longer than that… Maybe two months.”

“And this was before you started your relationship with Trevor?” He didn’t wait for an answer: “Of course it was; deodorant, and that tie was brand new…” He looked around the room for a moment and then turned back to her: “You think Paul killed Trevor, don’t you?” 

“I…I don’t…know…”

“Of course you do. I think he killed him too. I even think I know why he killed him, but the question is…how…?”

“Don’t you think we’d better tell Lestrade?” I asked. “Let him take care of it? I mean, if he really did beat Trevor to death with his bare hands,” and I heard Edith give another gasp of anguish as I said this, making me hate myself for my insensitivity, “then his DNA’ll be all over him, and vice versa. It’s surely only a matter of time before Lestrade catches him anyway, even if he is wasting time on chimps…”

“You’re right,” said Sherlock, actually sounding worried for a second. “We might not have very long at all…”

“What do you mean?” I asked, nonplussed by his concern. 

“We might not have very long to find out what really happened here before Lestrade goes arresting Presbury for Trevor’s murder.” 

“Well, won’t that be the best outcome?” I asked. “Even you say he’d have the right man.” Sherlock glanced at me despairingly:

“Yes, John, but Lestrade would be arresting the right man for the wrong reasons, because he acted a bit funny and had Trevor’s blood on him! No deduction, no observation involved! I need to know exactly what happened and why and whether my theories are correct. If the police go interfering we may never know all the details!”

And I realised he was telling the truth – he needed to solve this, and not just because it was an amusing game, or because it would confirm his high opinion of his own intellect. He needed it, the way other people need, well, things. The way people like Trevor and Edith find they need each other, despite being on opposite sides of the fence politically. And that, if you think about it, is kind of shocking and kind of sad. It’d be easy to start feeling sorry for Sherlock, except he doesn’t realise he has anything for other people to feel sorry about.

“Edith,” he said, decisively. “I want you to do something for me. I’ll text you later with the details. John and I need to make some further enquiries. You should probably go and help Anderson with that chimp before something horrible happens to him. And whatever you do,” he told her, “don’t breathe a word to Lestrade about suspecting Presbury. The Inspector doesn’t get to know all the facts until I’m ready for him to know.”

“But…” She looked at the door again. “Shouldn’t he…?” 

“No, he shouldn’t. And before you go telling him anything, bear in mind how it will look when your involvement with the protestors comes out. You’d be in the frame yourself. And don’t think Lestrade wouldn’t think you were a suspect just because it’s blindingly obvious you didn’t do it. He is only a policeman, after all.”

“Great, Sherlock,” I said when we were outside, walking towards the entrance gate and leaving Lestrade and the other police behind. “Not only do you go trampling all over a woman who lost her boyfriend only this morning – found her boyfriend with his head smashed in, mind you – but then you go blackmailing her into going along with one of your schemes! Brilliant!”

“Please, John,” he replied, disgustedly. “Spare me the moralising. You want to find out what happened in that laboratory last night as much as I do.” 

“I…” I sighed as we passed the security checkpoint and started down the road outside, looking for a cab. “Yeah,” I admitted eventually. “I suppose I do.”

“Of course you do.” Sherlock glanced up at the tall fence running along the side of the road. “Yes, interesting,” he commented. I glanced up too and saw that from where we were standing it was a straight line straight across the carpark to Trevor’s lab, and to the animal house beyond. “Very interesting…”

It was then that the long official-looking car pulled up beside us, a Jag, no less, with gleaming dark blue paintwork and tinted windows. They must have been waiting down the road for us to come out. One of the windows gently slid open.

“Oh, hi Anthea,” I managed (it’s not her real name, btw). “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh no, not her…” Sherlock groaned in annoyance. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“We’re all busy, Sherlock,” said the smiling young woman in the back of the car.

“I don’t suppose you just happened to be in the neighbourhood?” I asked hopefully. “No?”

“No,” she answered without looking up from her Blackberry. “Get in, boys.”

“And where are we going?” Sherlock asked bitterly when we were both in the spacious backseat with “Anthea”, heading for some undisclosed location. “His secret volcano base?” 

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” she told him, eyes on her emails.

“Still, er…” I tried to look like a fellow professional as I smiled back at her. “Still doing that, er, secret agent thing, then?”

“No, I decided to pack it in and become an estate agent instead.” She waited for a moment before sparing me an amused glance: “Joke, John.”

“Oh.” I managed a fake laugh and she sort of smiled and shook her head as she got back to her work. I considered that a result for my masculine charms. I find setting my expectations low means I’ll never be disappointed.

Yeah, I probably should have mentioned this bloke before. I’ve been a bit wary because, well, he’s probably not the sort of man you should get on the wrong side of. I don’t want to reveal too much, but Sherlock has this, I don’t know what the right term is, this contact? Friend? No, talk about suspension of disbelief… Associate? I can’t say more than that. We’ll just call him “M”. Yeah, like in James Bond. That’ll do. 

Right, so “M”’s a well-connected sort of guy. He does things for the government, shall we say. And for other governments, as required. And he has a sense of the theatrical, it has to be said. To give you an impression of the sort of person he is, he had his car bring us to this abandoned warehouse down by the river, where he was waiting in his pinstripe suit. With his umbrella. And quite possibly a carnation in his buttonhole. Seriously, all he needed was the bowler hat and he’d be John Steed.

“Good morning Sherlock, Dr Watson,” he greeted us with an infuriating smirk. 

“I’m busy, “M”,” Sherlock snapped. “Speaking of which, haven’t you got anything better to do than pretending to be a spy?”

“I am currently “on the clock”,” as they say,” “M” drawled, picking at the dank concrete floor with the tip of his umbrella as if he was fascinated by it. “In fact, Sherlock, quite apart from the fact that you’ve been ignoring my texts, I wanted to speak to you about this unfortunate business at Camford Pharmaceuticals.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock’s sarcastic tone could have blistered paint. It just made “Anthea” smile more broadly. She was lurking behind “M”, playing the henchwoman.

“Yes,” “M” replied, looking at us directly for the first time. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is very shortly going to receive a call from the Security Service…” 

“MI5?” I blinked.

“…the Security Service, advising him that they and Special Branch will be taking over the case, all files and evidence to be turned over, usual drill. So, Sherlock, I just thought I’d better make sure you understood that the matter is closed. Your efforts are no longer required.” He beamed at us: “Isn’t that marvellous news? You’ll have time to catch up on your daytime TV.”

“Tell that to the man with his head thinly spread across his laboratory floor,” said Sherlock.

“Are you actually trying to convince me that you have a burning desire to bring a poor unfortunate’s killer to justice?” “M” sounded sceptical. “There will be other puzzles, Sherlock, but this one is not for you.”

“What’s Paul Presbury doing for the Ministry of Defence?” I asked, quietly, thinking of Sherlock’s point before about the military having no interest in a cure for Alzheimer’s.

“And why would I know that?” “M” asked me, deadpan.

“Knowing things is your business,” I pointed out. That made him smirk even more. He and Sherlock are so alike sometimes.

“Something very important, Dr Watson,” he assured me, “something that could save the lives of numerous British soldiers. In places like Afghanistan.” Trying to push my buttons, the smooth-talking bastard.

“I don’t care how important it is,” I replied. “It doesn’t get him a free pass for murder.” “M”’s smug expression suggested that in some cases, doing important work for the government got you exactly that.

“Who is H. Lowenstein?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “From Berlin?” For a moment – just a moment – “M”’’s face fell. He recovered quickly, though.

“I said this puzzle is not for you, Sherlock,” he said, softly. “Please pay attention for once in your life.” He paused, playing with the umbrella again. “Will I see you on Sunday?” he asked, circumspectly. “It has been a while since you came over.”

“I’m washing my hair,” Sherlock replied.

“M” sighed: “Drop them off somewhere near Baker Street,” he told “Anthea”, already turning on his heel and stalking off into the shadows, “but not too near. The walk will do them both good.”

That’ll do for now, I think. The next part, the final part, will take some writing, just to do it all justice and because, well, because it’s absolutely flipping insane if you must know. Anyway, Mrs Hudson’s shouting up the stairs about something and Sherlock’s pretending he can’t hear her, so I suppose I’d better go and see what’s happening. I’ll hopefully get this all done and dusted sometime over the next couple of days. And if I don’t, well maybe it’s because THEY’ve got me.

I’m not joking about that, you know. Seriously.

 

8 comments

 

I’m slightly disappointed in you, John. I thought we’d discussed disclosure. I could get your blog account rescinded, I suppose, but I’d rather thrash this out in another of our enjoyable little chats. Be seeing you. Oh, and is Sherlock eating properly? He looked terribly thin when last I saw him. Cheekbones sticking out.  
“M”. 7 March 10:27

“M” (and I won’t make any cutting remarks about arch pseudonyms), do HM Government have any idea that you’re using their computers to surf the web during office hours? Tut, tut. And I’ll thank you to confine your concerns to your own diet. I thought you were looking a little broad across the beam the other day.  
Sherlock Holmes 7 March 17:21

Um, guys, could you two please conduct your family spats somewhere other than on my blog? Please?  
John Watson 7 March 19:03

John, as you’re obviously there now can you pass me the TV remote? I don’t want to watch Britain’s Got Talent.  
Sherlock Holmes 7 March 19:07

Get it yourself. It’s two feet away from you. And why did you type that? I’m only in the next room!  
John Watson 7 March 19:09

It’s such an effort to shout sometimes.  
Sherlock Holmes 7 March 19:10 

John, please either answer your phone or call me now.  
E Thompson 7 March 20:17

John, I’m serious. Call me.  
E Thompson 8 March 09:09


	4. 8th March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion! And if you are familiar with the original ACD story this is based on, you may well already know roughly how things are about to go down. If you're not, please do check out the original Sherlock Holmes story "The Creeping Man", and be prepared to marvel at the bizarritude... I hope you will enjoy it as much as I do. :D

The Personal Blog of  
Dr. John H. Watson

 

8th March

 

The Descent of Man, Part 4

 

So, the last part. The part I’ve been dreading ever since I started telling this story. Not just because it’s incredibly unlikely and outlandish and anybody reading it will think I’m either a) a liar or b) have finally lost it. No, I’ve been dreading it because I can still hardly bear to think about it. It gives me cold sweats, makes the hairs at the back of my neck prickle. It stops me from sleeping at night. Really. I thought I’d seen enough stuff like that already, that I was immune to anything else affecting me that way. Obviously not.

I could spend another couple of hours typing out rubbish like the above to avoid getting on with the story, but that’s not what you’re here for, right? Well, here it is, the shocking conclusion. And in all seriousness, it is shocking. So be warned. It gets worse before it gets better.

We spent that afternoon in Baker Street, me making a half-hearted attempt at the housework and Sherlock stretched out in the chair, bare forearms covered in nicotine patches, tapping away at his laptop with one hand and plucking noisily at that bloody violin with the other.

“Professor Dr Heinrich Ewald Lowenstein!” he suddenly announced as I happened to traipse through the living room dragging the hoover. “And it all becomes clear!”

“It does?” I blinked. “What, you Googled him? Brilliant detective work.”

“An eminent sports scientists and biochemist.” Sherlock ignored my comment. Only one person allowed to be sarcastic in our flat. “Briefly famous, or infamous, about ten years ago when he was convicted in a German court for crimes committed while working for the government of the old DDR…”

“The DDR?” I asked. “East Germany?” I was thinking, first “M”’s silly spy games now East Germany – it really was getting like James Bond.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, testily. “Before its dissolution in 1990, the German Democratic Republic – and you know what they say about countries with “democratic” in the name – spent nearly twenty years engaged in a programme of state-sponsored sports doping, systematically administering performance-enhancing drugs and hormones to just about all of its international athletes. Leaving thousands of teenagers with severe medical problems.”

“I’m not surprised,” I answered. “Abusing steroids at any age can mess you up, but in adolescence…”

“Not just steroids,” he responded. “Their scientists researched ever more exotic treatments in an effort to defeat more sophisticated testing regimes. Lowenstein was a leading light in the field, working directly with Dr Manfred Hoeppner, their chief of sports medicine. Links to the Stasi, so on and so forth...” He snapped the laptop shut: “When East Germany ended, Lowenstein joined a private company called Erfurtpharm, linked to major sports doping scandals in Europe and the United States. After the trial he dropped out of sight but rumours connect him to more recent sports scandals. You may have heard of that thing with the tennis players a few years ago…”

“No,” I admitted, “I haven’t.”

“Neither had I,” he said. “I love the internet.”

“What do performance-enhancing sports drugs have to do with Trevor Bennett and Paul Presbury?” I wondered. “Unless Camford Pharmaceuticals are involved in that as well…”

“In partnership with the Ministry of Defence?” Sherlock scoffed. “You said yourself; whatever Presbury’s working on must have some military application.”

“Maybe it does,” I told him, and I felt sick at the idea that had occurred to me: “Maybe. The sorts of drugs we’re talking about, they’re intended to make the people who use them faster, stronger, increase their stamina…not bad qualities for a combat soldier.”

“Very good, John.” Of course he’d already thought of it.

“No, it’s not very good,” I snapped. “Soldiers need to be in control of themselves.” For the first time in a while, my leg started to ache again. “The side-effects of the sorts of drugs you’re talking about include heightened aggression, irritability, paranoia…” I thought of the way Paul Presbury had nearly gone for Sherlock earlier today. If I’d ever seen a man out of control, it had been him. “You hear about fighter pilots off their heads on Benzedrine dropping bombs on Afghan wedding parties,” I said. “Can you imagine soldiers who were incredibly fast, incredibly strong, but in a permanent state of violent rage? Can you imagine the kinds of things they could do?”

“Like climbing the side of a building and smashing a man’s head to jelly with their bare hands?” Sherlock asked, calmly. “For instance?”

“Bloody hell…” I sank involuntarily onto the sofa. I could feel my hand shaking again, and not just my hand. Sherlock’s phone chimed to say he had a text.

“There’s our cue,” He sprang from the chair, sauntering towards the bedroom. 

“Where are you going now?”

“Now?” he asked. “Now we’re going to go and meet up with Edith. That was her to say she’s made the necessary arrangements for us to break into Camford Pharmaceuticals.”

“Break into Camford Pharmaceuticals?” I thought of “M”’s warning about getting in the way of “these people”. “You must be out of your mind!”

“John,” said Sherlock.

“We’ll be lucky if we only end up in prison!”

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“Your hand’s stopped shaking.” 

“Yeah.” I looked down at it, clenching and unclenching my suddenly rock-solid fist. “Yeah, it has.”

“Get dressed for some burglary,” he told me, leaving the room. “And bring your gun.”

“What gun?” I asked.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Bring that very, very convincing gun-shaped soap-on-a-rope you keep hidden in the bottom of your underwear drawer.”

“Why would you be going through my underwear drawer?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“John,” he replied, “once again you’re asking yourself the wrong question. Knowing what you know about me, the question you should be asking yourself is why wouldn’t I be going through your underwear drawer?”

He did make a very fair point, I suppose.

It was dark as the taxi dropped us around the corner from the Camford Pharmaceuticals labs. The only items in my wardrobe that seemed like “burgling clothes” were a pair of old camo trousers and a rather worse-for-wear black hoodie, hood up in a slightly lacklustre effort to conceal my identity. I could feel the gun, hard and angular against the small of my back where I’d tucked into my trousers, the bottom edge of the hoodie concealing it. It made me feel more confident than I probably should have been. It felt right.

“God,” Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head at my appearance. He, by contrast, was an elegant shadow in black, barely visible as he took the lead, keeping close to the tall wire fence. “Here.” He stopped and handed me something from the bag he was carrying. A black knitted ski mask and a pair of surgical gloves. I don’t even want to know how he came to have those just knocking around the flat. I quickly put on both gloves and mask and saw that he was similarly equipped. He, of course, looked like some sort of super-cool ninja – I dread to think what I looked like. 

“Come on, John.” Sherlock stepped up to the fence. I noticed we were in nearly the same place where “Anthea” had kidnapped us earlier that day.

“How do we get over?” I whispered. 

“We’re climbing,” he replied as if it should have been obvious. Well, okay it was, but that fence was about fifteen feet of wire mesh, glinting dully in the light of the nearest streetlamp with razor wire coiling along the top. Nevertheless, Sherlock was already halfway up it, the fence shaking and rattling as he used the diamonds of the mesh as hand- and toeholds. When he got to the top, he hung one-handed for a moment, pulling something from the bag and draping it over the razor wire. A blanket, folded a few times to provide just enough protection for him to clamber awkwardly over the top and start down the other side of the fence.

I glanced around for passers-by or security, heart thumping, and then followed. I haven’t had much physical exercise since being wounded, but I’m still pretty fit and this is the type of stuff the Army makes you do all the time. I like to think I managed the climb and the awkward scramble over the covered razor wire better than Sherlock had. The noise the fence made, though – I couldn’t believe nobody came running. There were supposed to be dogs on the grounds, weren’t there? I didn’t feel frightened though, not exactly. I felt excited, pumped on adrenaline.

It is the best feeling in the world, I realise that now, and I realise that I’ll do just about anything to keep feeling it, even trail around after Sherlock and put up with all his backchat and rubbish. Because it’s as much of an addiction, a drug, to me as Sherlock’s puzzles are to him.

I dropped to the ground, inside the laboratory complex. It all seemed very smooth so far, as burglaries went.

If DI Lestrade reads this, we’re both going to jail, aren’t we?

Well, maybe not, considering what happened later, but we’ll get to that when we get to it. 

“Stay close,” Sherlock ordered. He pointed at the corner of the nearest building, then at a tree standing near the fence to our left, and I realised why he had been looking at the fence earlier. We were in a blind spot. The way the CCTV cameras were positioned, we could walk from the fence to the building where Trevor had died, and provided we did it in a relatively straight line neither of the two nearest cameras would see. 

“Must be how the killer got in and out,” I told him.

“It seems like a reasonable theory,” he agreed. “Whether by sheer luck or animal cunning, well that’s another question…” For a moment, I thought he was talking about me and my theorising, but then I realised he meant the killer.

“Animal?” I queried, thinking of chimps again, but he waved me into silence. For a moment, we crouched at the base of the fence, waiting and listening. Every muscle in my body tensed; I caught myself holding my breath without even thinking, as if by staying still and silent I could make myself invisible.

“Is that you?” a voice hissed in the darkness. All I could make out was a slim black shape near the tree Sherlock had pointed out, but I recognised the voice:

“Edith?”

“Quiet,” Sherlock whispered, irritably. We straightened up and saw that it was her, also dressed for burglary it seemed, and she was not alone. “I didn’t say anything about bringing guests along,” Sherlock told her. 

“After the mess you made today,” she shot back, “I didn’t have any choice, did I?” She indicated the two young men who were with her, scruffy student types but they looked determined. “This is Tom and this is Asim, they’re going to help us get the animals out.”

“Get the animals out?” I blurted. I didn’t actually know why Sherlock had decided to break in here, but somehow he didn’t strike me as the animal-rescuing type.

“Yeah,” Edith insisted. And the glance she gave me, as if amazed by my stupidity, was not a million miles away from the way Sherlock sometimes looked at me. “Look,” she told Sherlock, “did you really think it was a good idea sending me a text from Trevor’s phone – the morning after he was murdered, for God’s sake – accusing me of being an animal rights activist? I’ve spent the afternoon being questioned by two nasty fellas in suits, and not your Inspector Lestrade either. I think they were a bit heavier than he is.”

“He isn’t my Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, obviously annoyed at his own slip-up. He turned to me: “John, if you ever blog this, make sure you keep this bit in. It’s good to be reminded that I make mistakes…very occasionally. Keeps me honest.” Your wish, Sherlock, is my command.

“I’m getting out tonight,” Edith said. “It’s not as if I’m employed here under my real name and details. I’m going to disappear, but while I’ve still got access we’re going to get those animals out. That’s the deal. I get you into Paul’s office like you asked, and you help us get those chimps and dogs out of here. We’ve got contacts can get the chimps out of the country no questions asked, and the dogs…well, they’re just dogs, we can place them just about anywhere.”

“I don’t make deals,” Sherlock told her.

“You do tonight.” Something in her face, something hard, made me think she wasn’t bluffing. It does that to some people, something like finding Trevor dead, once they get over the shock. Believe me, I know. Sherlock just shrugged, conceding the point but not looking happy about it. Edith handed him a pale rectangular object: “That’s a visitor pass – I lifted it from the reception desk before. The alarm code on the first floor is zero-four-five-zero-seven. When you’ve done what you need to do, we’ll be in the animal house.” With that, she and her associates took off across the carpark, carefully following the route Sherlock had pointed out. So he wasn’t the only one to spot that either. I’m keeping you honest, Sherlock – you said it yourself! 

“This way, John.”

I followed him to the corner of the lab building, pressing up against the wall as we approached the entrance. The pass worked. So did the alarm code. About three minutes later we were in Presbury’s office on the first floor, walking round like we owned the place. Well, Sherlock was walking round like he owned the place. I was expecting security to show up at any moment, and wondering what the sentence was for carrying a concealed firearm while breaking and entering.

“Did you see Presbury before?” Sherlock asked, switching on his pencil torch and casually going through drawers and filing cabinets.

“Yes, I saw him.” I was keeping an eye on the door. Someone had to. “I was standing right next to you when he nearly attacked you, remember.”

“You looked at him,” Sherlock said, “but did you see him?” He held the torch in his mouth to remove an armful of cardboard folders from the nearest cabinet, flicking through them. I waited for the punchline. Eventually, he dropped the folders on the floor in disgust and sat down at Presbury’s desk, switching on the computer.

“Yes?” I asked. “I assume you’re going to make some stunningly clever observation that I missed because I’m thick, so just get on with it.”

“Meow,” Sherlock commented. “Why do we always have to argue when we’re out?” His fingers danced across the keyboard. As you can probably guess, Sherlock finds working out other people’s passwords as easy as working out everything else about them. “What colour was Presbury’s hair?” he asked.

“What? Er…sort of dark grey, I suppose.”

“And yet in the picture on the security pass hanging around his neck, it was nearly white.”

“He started dyeing it,” I shrugged. “A lot of men do.”

“And did he also manage to have a hair transplant without anybody noticing?” Sherlock asked. “It was thicker than in the picture too. The only way Trevor or Edith wouldn’t have remarked upon that is if it was a gradual change, too gradual to notice if they were seeing him every working day. And why would a serious scientist with no private life suddenly decide to dye his hair anyway?”

“To feel better about himself?” I theorised. “Anyway, he didn’t have “no private life”, did he? He slept with Edith.” I fidgeted: “Tried to.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, attention wandering from the computer to the desk itself. He quickly examined the in-tray, phone, a webcam, a pen holder, some papers, then started on the desk drawers. One was locked; he immediately produced his lockpick. “An older man tries to start a relationship with a much younger woman, experiences embarrassing sexual performance issues. Younger woman then instead begins a relationship with his much younger assistant…” He looked up from his lockpicking: “Well, you’re more of an expert on that kind of thing than I am, John, but even I can see the implications there.”

“You think Presbury killed Trevor out of jealousy?” I asked.

“One of the really classic motives,” he commented, finally getting the drawer open. “Old-school. Sex or money; the causes of just about every murder, when you get right down to it. And I don’t think he killed Trevor. I know it.” From the drawer he produced another one of those FedEx envelopes, already open. He tipped it out over the desktop, but the only thing that came out was another of Professor Lowenstein’s invoices. Sherlock glanced at it and cast it aside: “Did you see his hand this morning?”

“Bandaged from where Roy bit him.”

“And bleeding,” Sherlock said. “There were spots of blood on the bandage. From a wound inflicted nearly three weeks ago? No, from where he smashed his own hand to pulp against Trevor’s skull. That must have smarted in the morning.”

“I’ll bet.” I glanced nervously at the door again.

“And the knuckles of his other hand, you might have noticed, were bruised and abraded, as if from, well…from walking around on them.”

“So what do you think happened last night?”

“I think it happened four or five weeks ago,” he replied. “When Edith and Trevor became lovers and Presbury went to his conference in Berlin.”

“Where he met Lowenstein?” I guessed.

“Yes. Perhaps he went specifically to see him, to discuss the research he was doing for the government. To compare notes. Well, he did more than that because when he returned he seemed like a changed man.”

“Aggressive and irritable.” I thought about it: “Aggressive and irritable and receiving these mysterious parcels from Germany…”

“About which he was extremely secretive, according to Trevor.” Sherlock stood up from the desk.

“So, obviously he must be on something. Something Lowenstein has been sending him from Germany for two thousand quid a dose. Pricey.”

“Money is no object to the determined addict.” And the way Sherlock said it, half to himself without meeting my gaze, makes me think he might know something about that sort of thing. “He receives the parcels roughly every nine days judging by the dates on the invoices, and takes their contents when he receives them, explaining why the previous incidents…”

“…were nine days apart.” The obvious question, though, was: “What’s he taking, then, and why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked, heading for the door again, the purloined pass at the ready. “What would a man in his position – lusting after a younger woman, humiliated by his own ageing body, confronted with a younger sexual rival – what would he want?”

“Something to…” I almost laughed at the idea: “Something to rejuvenate himself?”

“Hence the hair,” Sherlock replied, exiting into the corridor. I quickly followed him.

“But that’s just stupid,” I pointed out. “Somebody like Presbury would know all too well that it’s scientifically impossible.”

“Maybe,” he answered, “maybe not. Maybe he’d heard rumours that Lowenstein had discovered something unusual in the course of his work for the East German government. There’s no proof I can see in his office, anyway. We should have tried breaking into his house… Of course,” he continued, “as with any untrialled treatment, there are side effects…”

“The anger issues,” I nodded. “Made him snappy with people, made him trash his own lab that time…made him kill Trevor in a jealous rage? I don’t know why it’d make Roy attack him, though; maybe he hurt him when he was working on him.”

“Perhaps he smells different now,” Sherlock suggested as we exited into the carpark, careful to keep close to the side of the building. “And the biggest side effect of all, of course, the unnatural strength and agility he must have needed to kill Trevor the way he did.”

“You’re talking science fiction,” I told him. “There’s no drug that can do that, not overnight.”

“No drug known to the medical mainstream.” He paused, looking up at the smashed window high above our heads. Somebody had nailed boards over it since we were last here. “Trevor came back here last night to poke around for evidence. Maybe he broke into Presbury’s office the same way we did.”

“And then Presbury came and killed him?”

“Yes. And we know he was out most of the night doing so, because of the moussaka, yesterday’s special from the works canteen.”

“What?”

“Yes, those tiny stains on the front of his shirt when I spoke to him today – that distinctive shade of orange. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes because he’d been out all night bashing heads in and breaking the locks on the chimp cages.”

“What about blood?” I asked. “If he was still wearing the same clothes he had on last night, shouldn’t he have been covered in it?”

“Maybe he was,” Sherlock replied. “He could have been sprayed with microscopic droplets. Anderson would have detected them if he’d got around to testing him.”

“Except that you had him testing that chimp,” I pointed out. Sherlock did not seem concerned by this. “Why did he let the chimp out?” I wondered.

“To divert the blame? Distract the police?” Sherlock looked at me: “John, the man just climbed up a building and killed somebody with his bare hands while under the influence of drugs unknown to medical science. Why would he do just about anything?”

I frowned, looking up at the building again. Another thought occurred to me: “And how did he know Trevor was here, to be able to come and kill him?”

“Excellent question.” Sherlock looked up too. “I suppose that in his state of drug-induced paranoia he could have suspected that Trevor might start sniffing about for clues. If he was really paranoid he could have set up some sort of surveillance…”

“Sherlock,” I said.

“He said he didn’t live far away, and under the influence of this drug he might be able to get here very quickly indeed…”

“Sherlock,” I repeated, more loudly.

“Yes, John?”

“There was a webcam on the desk.” I swallowed, hard, feeling that adrenaline rush coming back strong and clear. “Did you notice whether it was switched on?”

“They have a light that comes on when they’re transmitting,” he replied, which didn’t actually answer the question.

“And could you tinker with that?” I wondered aloud. “You know, so that you could have it switched on without the light showing?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

I nodded slowly, and said the first thing that came to mind: “Oh shit.”

“Yes,” he agreed. And then the fence started rattling behind us. “John,” said Sherlock, calmly under the circumstances. “Don’t panic now, John…” The fence rattled again, accompanied by a shrieking cry. A human voice, I realised, the hairs standing up at the back of my neck beneath the ski mask and hoodie, but not a human sound. “Don’t panic,” Sherlock said again, which was probably about as close as he got to panicking himself.

“Do you think maybe we should run now?” I asked, reaching for my gun.

“Oh yes,” he agreed. We ran. We ran as if our lives depended on it, and let’s face it they probably did. Behind us, the thing hit the ground with another shriek. I didn’t dare stop and see what it was, even though I knew already. The crosshatched plastic grip of the gun stuck firmly to the rubber glove I was wearing, but the inside of the glove was wet with sweat. I could hear the thing’s breathing, thick and rapid, coming in little grunts as it chased us down, getting closer and closer even as we legged it across the tarmac of the carpark, CCTV cameras forgotten in our flight.

As I ran, I could hear my own voice, like it was coming from somewhere far away: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit…” The beast chasing me just grunted and panted, scrabbling across the tarmac on all four limbs.

“John!” Sherlock carded the door of the animal block, yanked it open, dragged me bodily inside. The instant the door closed, the thing hit it from the other side, hard enough to make it shake. We were already running down the tiled corridor towards the next door. To our right, a row of thick mesh doors stood unlocked and open, the animals they had confined already gone.

Beyond the far door, I could hear Roy and the other dogs going mad, barking and snarling wildly. They could smell it, the thing chasing us. They knew what it was, something wrong and unnatural. I heard the outer door crash open even as we reached the inner one, terror and excitement fighting for control of me as Sherlock opened the inner door in the very nick of time and we half-fell through into the kennels beyond.

“What’s going on?” Edith asked as she saw us slam the door shut again and throw ourselves against it, as if we could stop the thing already pounding upon it from the other side.

“We…we’ve got company,” Sherlock told her, with nice understatement I thought.

Actually, at the time I thought “please God let this door hold. I don’t want to die the same way Trevor Bennett did!” But you get the idea.

“What is that?” Edith asked, eyes wide and white with fear.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sherlock suggested. You can tell he’s a genius, can’t you?

The thing on the other side of the door slammed against it again, and I felt it nearly give. Sherlock was already retreating towards the rear exit. Not a bad idea, I decided, following him.

“Tom and Asim have taken the chimps to the van,” Edith told him, unlocking another of the dog cages with her keys.

“What van?” Sherlock asked. 

“We’re stealing a van too,” she announced, casually. “We can bluff our way out of the main gate.”

“We won’t make it to the main gate,” I informed her, dry-mouthed, turning towards the door again as it shuddered once more. I saw the fist, bandaged and bloodied, beating against the little security-glass window from the outside, hard enough to crack it. “That thing’ll catch us before we get halfway.”

“Sherlock, help me with the dogs.” She gave him a handful of leads. The dogs continued to bark and yelp and whine deafeningly all around us, unfortunately not loudly enough to drown out the shrieks and shouts of the beast at the door.

“I don’t do dogs,” he sniffed.

“Sherlock!” I half-screamed. “Get the dogs and get out! You and Edith! Go!” I turned back to the door, raising the gun in a two handed shooting stance, taking careful aim.

“John, don’t be stupid,” he sighed.

“This is a Browning L9A1 semiautomatic pistol,” I replied through gritted teeth. “Thirteen rounds in the clip; I reckon I can unload all of them in a couple of seconds. At this range, even without aiming, that…creature is going to take about half of those in the head and torso before it can reach me from the doorway. I like those odds.”

“John…”

“Go!” The door shuddered again, chips of glass flying from the window. The beast let out a howl of what I could only describe as bloodlust.

“Come on!” Edith opened the back door and she and Sherlock began trying to drag the unruly, noisy pack of dogs through it. I just concentrated on the door, breathing deeply and evenly, finger tightening on the trigger as the door continued to shudder and rattle.

And then it flew open. I mean, literally flew off its hinges. Edith gasped in pure terror, Sherlock shouted something I didn’t quite make out. The dogs went even crazier than they already were, yapping and growling and pulling at their leads.

The thing – the thing that had been Dr Paul Presbury – came through the doorway on all fours, walking on knuckles and feet just like a great ape, bloody to the elbows where he’d smashed his hands to pieces breaking open the doors but seemingly impervious to pain. His – its? – face was a twisted mask of deep purple flesh, literally frothing at the mouth, teeth bared and eyes glittering. He shrieked again and my blood ran cold. 

I froze. 

I pointed the gun straight at his head, ready to shoot, and I just froze.

I was so scared.

So bloody scared I couldn’t move. I’ve never felt like that, not even in Afghanistan, but that…thing in front of me. I’m not a religious man, but that thing was evil. Manmade, but evil all the same.

“John,” said Sherlock, and he sounded as scared as I felt. Even Sherlock was bricking it – that’s how frightening this man, this thing, this man-thing, was.

Presbury rose fully to his feet, bloody hands raised like claws, legs tensing as he prepared to spring at me, grinning maniacally as he prepared to kill again.

“Jesus,” I said. And I even think I meant it, in that moment. I was about to die, after all.

And then there came a particularly loud yelp from right behind me, the sound of something snapping.

“No, Roy!” Edith cried out. “Don’t!”

Roy the dog sprang past me, snarling furiously, and hit Presbury straight in the throat, teeth first. They went rolling together, over and over back out into the corridor, man and dog locked together in what I can only describe as a death struggle. Suddenly I could move again. I ran after them, pistol at the ready, hearing Sherlock and Edith following close behind me. By the time we caught up to them, it was over.

“Roy?” Edith said faintly. Roy looked up at us, wagging his tail, muzzle smeared with thick red blood. Presbury murmured something indistinctly, more blood gushing from his torn neck, quickly slowing to a trickle then stopping altogether. He was dead before I even managed to crouch beside him, taking his pulse with one hand while keeping the gun pressed to his temple with the other, just in case. I closed his eyes and straightened up. Behind me, I could hear Edith throwing up. I didn’t blame her.

“What did he say?” I wondered. I hadn’t quite made out the words.

Sherlock answered immediately, his voice flat and calm: “He said, “Edith, I love you.””

“Bloody hell,” said Edith and puked again, loudly.

And that’s the story. You don’t have to believe it, and sometimes I’m not really sure I believe it myself. For instance, I can’t believe there have been no legal repercussions. I probably should feel reluctant to blog about it, but quite apart from the fact that it sounds like a made-up story, I’m starting to think that if we were looking at any legal trouble over our involvement, we would have heard about it by now. “M”, of course, said that the case had been taken off Lestrade and given to MI5 and Special Branch. And they, it would seem, just wanted the whole thing forgotten, because we never heard anything official about Presbury’s death or the removal of the animals from the lab.

As for Edith – which isn’t really the name we knew her by, by the way, which in turn was not, I strongly suspect, her real name – she was as good as her word. She and her friends disappeared along with the animals. I hope she and Roy are happy somewhere, one step ahead of the law.

The last word belongs to Sherlock, of course. He always has the last word, even if he has to steal it.

We were sitting in Baker Street a couple of days after the Camford incident, and I happened to mention Presbury’s last words again. To be honest, even though I didn’t hear them clearly at the time, I can’t get them out of my head.

“He did all of that,” I said, “to himself and to others, for love. Or so he told himself.”

“Or so he told himself,” Sherlock murmured, flexing his forearm after applying another patch.

“Well, you know what they say,” I continued. “Love makes fools out of us all.” 

Sherlock just gave me a withering sort of look: “Speak for yourself, John.”

 

11 comments

 

John, please call me. Reading the above I think we need to talk more than ever. Please call – I’m very concerned about your wellbeing.  
E Thompson 8 March 09.13

Oh, what a horrible story! I mean, it was very good, but that ending! I suppose I’m not really into that sort of thing, but I’m sure that other people might like it. So, are you planning on becoming a professional author, John? I still think I’d change the names of the characters, though. Have you seen Sherlock around? I’ve tried calling and texting him, and he hasn’t been to the lab lately. D:  
Molly Hooper 8 March 10.46

John, are you alright? Don’t you think you need to see that doctor of yours?  
Harry Watson 8 March 12.37

Mate, do you need to talk again? I’ll be in the Railway Arms after eight tonight, so you know…  
Bill Murray 8 March 14.14

John, John, John. I said keep me honest, not embark upon a full-blown character assassination! Do you think you could have made me appear any more clueless and ineffectual in this last part? And as for the action movie machismo you managed to inject into your own role in the affair…  
Sherlock Holmes 8 March 17.22 

If the shoe fits…  
John Watson 8 March 18.02

And what does that mean? I’m not interested in “looking good” for the sort of proles who read this pap, just in making sure the online account bears at least a passing similarity to the real events of the case.  
Sherlock Holmes 8 March 18.10 

Poor little you. @Bill: Railway Arms it is, the sooner the better.  
John Watson 8 March 18.23

Oh, running away to the pub are we?  
Sherlock Holmes 8 March 18.30 

Get a room you two.  
Harry Watson 8 March 19.04

A fascinating tale, if a little hard to believe. I look forward to discussing this one in person with you, Sherlock. Oh, and don’t worry about Herr Professor Lowenstein. His indiscretions were quite intolerable. He won’t be troubling anybody anymore. See you soon. “Ta-ta” for now!  
Anonymous 9 March 01:22


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